Robert Asprin - Phule 1 - Phule's Company

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Phule's Company by Robert Asprin

INTRODUCTION

It has been said that every great man deserves a biographer. I have

therefore taken it upon myself to keep a private record of my employer's

activities during his career in the Space Legion. If there are those who

would, perhaps, contest his qualifications as a great man, I would answer that

he is the closest thing to a great man that it has been my privilege to

associate with on close enough terms to keep such a journal. I would further

point out that, in certain circles, Genghis Kahn and Geronimo are considered

to be great men.

To introduce myself, I am a gentleman's gentleman, or what would be

referred to in military circles as a batman. (For the less literate-minded, I

would ask that you refrain from associating that label with any comic book

character you might be familiar with. I have always felt that capes were an

unnecessary fashion statement and have endeavored to discourage my employers

from resorting to such tacky, attention-seeking ploys.) I am called Beeker,

and neither require nor seek additional titles of address.

Although I was with my employer since the time of his enlistment and

before, I feel that the truly noteworthy portion of his career began at his

court-martial. To be specific, at his first court-martial.

The waiting room had the kind of decor one would expect of the greenroom

of a down-at-the-heels acting troupe. Two ancient sofas of indeterminate color

were sagging against opposite walls, surrounded by an assortment of folding

and wooden chairs that would have been cheap if new, and the magazines strewn

on the only table would have made an archaeologist sit up and take notice.

Two men shared the space, more at home with each other than with their

surroundings. One was a chunky individual of medium height, decked out in

impeccable but conservative civilian clothes, or civvies, as they were known

in these quarters. His ruddy face had the bland expression of one used to

waiting as he dominated one sofa, idly staring at the pocket microcomputer in

his lap and steadfastly ignoring his companion.

The other occupant was anything but calm in appearance or manner.

Whiplash lean, he seemed to radiate barely suppressed energy as he paced the

room's confines. If tigers stood vigil in maternity waiting rooms while

awaiting delivery of their young, there would be little difference between

their display of anxiety and that shown by the young man's nervous prowling.

Perhaps panthers would be a better comparison, as his uniform was the midnight

black of the Space Legion-a color chosen not for its aesthetic or camouflage

value as much as the fact the dye could hide the origins of any military

surplus uniform bought in lots by the budget-strapped Legion. Not that he was

wearing a standard-issue uniform, mind you. His collar pips marked him as a

lieutenant, and like most officers he had his uniforms tailor-made, taking

full advantage of the Legion's lack of uniformity among their uniforms. The

quality of the fabric and workmanship in his garment was several notches above

normal, though he had deliberately chosen one of a more somber cut for this

occasion.

"For cryin' out loud, how long does it take them?"

The question burst almost unbidden from the lieutenant's lips as he

began his fiftieth circuit of the room.

The man on the sofa didn't even glance up.

"It's really not my place to say, sir."

It was the first response to any of his muttering, and the lieutenant

seized on the words as a focus for his irritation.

"Don't give me that 'subservient butler' guff, Beeker! Since when have

you ever not had an opinion on something or been hesitant to share it with me

. . . asked or not?"

Beeker's gaze shifted from his reading to the lieutenant.

"Well, actually you've been a bit more close-minded than usual since you

joined the Space Legion, sir . . . or rather since you made up your mind to

join. In this specific case, however, I was under the impression that what you

voiced was a rhetorical question."

"It was . . . but answer it, anyway. Come on, Beeker. Talk to me."

With careful deliberation, the butler set his reader aside.

"Certainly, sir. Could you repeat the question?"

"What do you thinks taking them so long?" the lieutenant said, resuming

his prowling, but more slowly now that he was verbalizing his thoughts. "I

mean, I did plead guilty."

"Forgive me for belaboring the obvious," Beeker said, "but if the

question of guilt has been settled, then what remains is the sentencing. It

would seem the court is having some difficulty in deciding precisely what

punishment is correct for your offense."

"Well, what's so hard about that? I made a mistake. Fine. I'm sure other

Legionnaires have made mistakes before."

"True," the butler said. "However, I'm not sure how many others have

duplicated the exact nature and magnitude of your indiscretion. I'm certain

that if anyone else had strafed the ceremonial signing of a peace treaty, I

would have noted it in the media releases . . . sir."

The lieutenant grimaced at the memory.

"I didn't know what was going on at the time. Our communications gear

was on the fritz, so we never got the cease-fire order. Besides, we'd been

ordered to maintain com silence. "

Beeker nodded patiently. He had heard all this before, but understood

the lieutenant's need to go over it again.

"As I understand it, you were ordered to stand silent picket duty . . .

to note and report any ship movement off-planet. Period. There was no

authorization for an individual ship to make a strafing run."

"I wasn't ordered not to! Battle usually goes to the side that seizes

initiative when opportunity presents itself."

Beeker raised his eyebrows expressively.

"Battle? I thought there was no resistance."

"That's why I made my move. Our instruments showed that they had dropped

their defense net, so I thought if I moved quick we could scare them with a

little demonstration of firepower and bring this whole revolt to an early

close."

"It was already over," Beeker pointed out dryly. "That's why they

dropped their defense net."

"But I didn't know that! I just saw the net go down and-"

"And talked the hot-shot pilot on duty into going in on a strafing run.

All in the time it took the ship's captain to go to the john."

"It was a simple case of bad communications," the lieutenant grumbled,

avoiding his comrade's eyes. "How mad can they be? We deliberately aimed at

property and not people, so no one got hurt."

Beeker stared innocently at the ceiling.

"I'm told the property damage was in excess of ten million credits . .

"Hey. I told them I'd . . ."

". . . and that you shot their flag to shreds while it was flying over

the ceremony . . . "

"Well, it was . . ."

". . . and of course, shooting up the ambassador's private space yacht

was unwise at best. That's our ambassador . . ."

"They didn't have their ID beacon on!"

"Possibly because there was a cease-fire on."

"But . . . Oh, damn it all, anyway!"

The lieutenant ceased his struggles and his pacing and sank wearily into

the couch opposite Beeker.

"What do you think they'll do to me, Beek?"

"At the risk of sounding disloyal sir," the butler said, picking up his

reader again, "I frankly don't envy them that decision. "

As the court-martial involved a junior officer, Legion rules only

required three officers to try the case. An air of discomfort seemed to hang

over the deliberations, however, mostly due to the senior officer present.

It was said that everyone in the Legion had three names: the one he was

born with, the one he chose when he joined the Legion, and the one he

deserved. Though the records showed the second, most were known by the third,

the nickname they acquired through their personality and actions while

enlisted, though few officers formally acknowledged what the lower ranks

called them.

Colonel Battleax was one of those rare cases where her chosen name and

nickname were in accord. She was a drab, horse-faced woman with piercing eyes

that left respect, caution, and no small amount of fear in their wake, and the

prim no-nonsense cut of her uniform added an implied note of disapproval for

those Legionnaires who favored a more flamboyant style in their wardrobes.

There was a stern air about her that could only be called intimidating and did

little to set people at their ease when in contact with her, much less the

focus of her attention. The overall effect was that one was being taken to

task by one's aging mother, except that in this case the party sitting in

judgment could not only heap guilt on one's head but also scuttle a career

with a raised eyebrow and a terse notation on one's personnel file.

This alone would have caused discomfort in the other two officers of the

court . . . but there was more. The colonel had arrived unannounced from

Legion Headquarters specifically to preside over the court-martial, and while

she did her best to pass it off as a routine visit, simple logistics dictated

that she would have had to be dispatched within hours of receipt of the

notification to have arrived as soon as she did. The implications of this were

clear: Headquarters had a special interest in this case and wanted to be sure

of its outcome. The problem was that neither of the other two officers had a

clue as to what was expected. While their best guess was that the lieutenant

was to be made an example of, they chose by unspoken agreement to proceed

cautiously, playing good guy/bad guy while waiting for some clue from the

court president. After an hour of this, however, the colonel had yet to give

any indication as to which way she was leaning, contenting herself to

listening intently as the other two "argued."

"Do you want to review the court recordings again?"

"What for? They haven't changed!" Major Joshua snarled. Olive-

complexioned and naturally hyper and intense, he had easily assumed the bad-

guy role. At this point, however, he was tiring of the game and eager to bring

things to a head. "I don't know why we're still debating this! The man's

guilty as sin-hell, he even admits it! If we don't come down hard on him,

it'll look like we're condoning what he did."

"Look, Josh-I mean, Major-there were extenuating circumstances

involved."

The rotund Captain Humpty had no difficulty playing the good-guy devil's

advocate. It was his habit to champion the underdog, though this case was

trying even his generous tolerances. Still, he rose gamely to the challenge.

"We keep saying we want our junior officers to show initiative and

leadership. If we slap them down every time they try something that doesn't

work, then pretty soon no one will have the courage to do anything that isn't

under orders and by the book."

The major snorted in disbelief. "Incentive! Bloodthirsty opportunism is

more like it-at least, that's what the media called it, if I remember

correctly."

"Are we letting the media set our discipline these days?"

"Well, no," Joshua admitted. "But we can't completely ignore our public

image, either. The Legion is already considered to be the bottom of the heap.

It's disasters like this that have everyone thinking we're a haven for

criminals and losers."

"If they want Boy Scouts, there's always the Regular Army, not to

mention the Starfleet," said the Captain dryly. "The Legion has never been a

home for angels, including, I'll wager, all of us in this room. We're supposed

to be judging this man's questionable action, not trying to salvage the

Legion's reputation. "

"All right. Let's look at his action. I still don't see any redeeming

factors in what he did."

"He inspired one of those Dudley-Do-Right pilots you're so envious of to

make an unauthorized strafing run. I know commanders who haven't been able to

get that kind of cross-service support even when the pilots were under orders

to cooperate. Do you think it's wise to squelch that kind of leadership

potential?"

"That depends on if you're differentiating between 'leadership' and an

ability to incite disobedience. What your young lieutenant really needs is a

couple years in the stockade to calm him down. Then maybe he'll think twice

before he goes charging off half-cocked."

"I don't think we want to do that."

Both men broke off their argument and turned their attention to the

colonel, who had finally entered into the discussion.

"While you have made several valid points, Major, and your proposed

sentence would be in line with those points, there are certain . . . factors

to be considered here which you are not aware of."

She paused, as if weighing each word for correctness, while the other

officers waited patiently.

"I am extremely reluctant to bring this up-in fact, I rather hoped it

wouldn't be necessary. As you know, each Legionnaire starts with a clean slate

when he or she joins up. We aren't supposed to be biased by, or even be aware

of, their personal history prior to their enlistment. To maintain that

illusion, I'll have to ask that not only what I tell you be kept in strictest

confidence, but also the fact that you were told anything at all."

She waited until both men had nodded their agreement before continuing,

and even then seemed reluctant to speak directly.

"It goes without saying that the lieutenant comes from money. If he

didn't, he wouldn't be an officer."

The others waited patiently for information that was news. It was known

that the Legion raised money by selling commissions . . . or rather by

charging hefty fees to anyone who wanted to test for one.

"I did notice that he has his own butler," the captain said, trying to

be amiable. "A bit pretentious, perhaps, but nothing the rest of us couldn't

afford if we were so inclined."

The colonel ignored him.

"The truth is . . . have either of you considered the significance of

the lieutenant's choice of a name?"

"Scaramouche?" Major Joshua said with a frown. "Aside from the obvious

reference to the character from the novel, I hadn't given it much thought."

"I assumed it was because he fancied himself to be a swordsman," the

captain put in, not to be outdone by his colleague.

"Before the novel. Perhaps I should say that the real origin of the name

and title is a stock character from Italian comedy-a buffoon or a fool."

The men scowled and exchanged covert glances.

"I don't get it," the major admitted at last. "What has that got to do

with-"

"Try spelling 'fool' with a 'ph' . . . as in p-h-u-l-e."

"I still don't-"

The colonel sighed and held up a restraining hand.

"Take a moment and study your sidearm, Major," she said.

Puzzled, the officer drew his pistol and glanced at it, turning it over

in his hand. As he did, a sharp intake of breath drew his attention and he

realized that the captain had successfully put together whatever it was that

the colonel was driving at.

"You mean . . ."

"That's right, Captain." The court president nodded grimly. "Your

Lieutenant Scaramouche is none other than the only son and heir apparent to

the current owner and president of Phule-Proof Munitions."

Stunned, the major gaped at the pistol in his hand which bore the Phule-

Proof logo. If the colonel was correct, then the lieutenant he had been about

to throw the book at was one of the youngest megamillionaires in the galaxy.

"But then why would he join . . . ?"

The words froze in the major's throat as he barely caught himself on the

brink of the worst social gaff a Legionnaire can commit. Suddenly

uncomfortable, he turned the pistol over in his hands again to avoid the icy

stares of the other officers. While it was a definite breach of regulations

for the colonel to reveal the lieutenant's personal background, the one

question no one was ever allowed to ask of or about any Legionnaire was "Why

did he or she join?"

After an awkward few moments had passed, the colonel resumed the

discussion.

"Now, what we need to consider before reaching our verdict is not only

that Phule-Proof Munitions is the largest arms manufacturer and distributor in

the galaxy, not to mention the current supplier of arms and munitions for the

Space Legion, but also that it is the largest single employer of Legionnaires

who quit or retire. I think we have to ask ourselves whether the lieutenant's

offense was so great that it's worth jeopardizing the relationship between the

Legion and its main supplier, not to mention our individual careers."

"Excuse me, Colonel, but didn't I read somewhere that the lieutenant and

his father were on the outs?"

Colonel Battleax fixed the captain with her coldest stare. "Possibly.

Still, family is family, and I'm not sure I'd want to bet on how the father

would react if we threw his only son into the stockade for a few years. Then,

too, assuming the lieutenant eventually inherits the company, I wouldn't

relish going to him for a job when I retired . . . not if I was one of the

ones who sentenced him to jail."

"It would be a lot easier if he just resigned," Major Joshua muttered

darkly as he mulled over this new development.

"True," the colonel said, unruffled. "But he didn't . . . and you know

Legion regulations as well as I do. We can level any kind of punishment we

want on a Legionnaire, but we can't drum them out of the service. He can

resign, but we can't force him to quit."

"Maybe if the sentence was rough enough, he'd resign rather than accept

it," Captain Humpty suggested hopefully.

"Perhaps, but I wouldn't count on it. I, for one, don't like to bluff if

I'm not willing to live with the consequences if it's called. "

"Well, we've got to do something to him," the major said. "After all the

coverage he's gotten from the media, we'd look silly if we didn't make an

example of him."

"Perhaps." The colonel smiled tightly.

Major Joshua scowled. "What do you mean by that . . . sir?"

"I mean it wouldn't be the first time a Legionnaire has been renamed to

keep the media hounds off his track."

"You aren't seriously suggesting that we let him off scotfree, are you?"

the captain broke in. "After what he's done? I don't favor ignoring-"

"I wasn't suggesting we let the lieutenant escape unscathed," Colonel

Battleax interrupted hastily. "I merely think that in this particular

situation, it might be wisest if we considered some alternatives to

confinement in the stockade for punishment. Perhaps we could find a new

assignment for our misfit . . . a tour sufficiently unpleasant that it would

leave no doubt in his or anyone else's mind as to the opinion this court has

of his little Wild West show."

The officers lapsed into silence then, as they searched their minds of a

posting that would fill their needs.

"If he were a captain," the major said to himself, breaking the silence,

"we could ship him off to the Omega crew."

"What was that, Major?" The colonel's voice was suddenly sharp.

Joshua blinked as if waking from a dream, jolted into remembering that

the court president was from Headquarters.

"I . . . Nothing, sir. Just thinking out loud."

"Did I hear you say something about an Omega Company?"

"Sir?"

"Do you know anything about this, Captain?"

"About what, sir?" Captain Humpty said, mentally cursing the major's

loose tongue.

The colonel swept both men with an icy glare before speaking again.

"Gentlemen, let me remind you that I've been in the Legion twice as long

as either of you. I'm neither blind nor stupid, and I'll thank you not to

treat me as if I were."

The other two court members squirmed uncomfortably, like schoolboys in a

principal's office, as she continued.

"The Space Legion is smaller and less glamorous than the Regular Army,

more like security guards than an actual fighting force. We don't enjoy the

advantage they have of fielding units made up entirely of soldiers from one

planet, hence our policy of accepting all applicants, no questions asked.

"Now, I know this policy has always caused problems for field officers

such as yourselves. Despite our loose discipline and regulations, there are

always those who don't fit neatly into military life-misfits or losers,

depending on how polite you want to be when describing them. I'm also aware

that, in direct disregard for standing orders regarding the treatment of

Legionnaires, from time to time there develops an Omega Company-a dumping

ground for problem cases that field officers are too busy or lazy to deal

with. They are usually broken up as soon as they are discovered by

Headquarters, but they continue to pop up, and when they do, the word gets

passed quietly through the Legion until someone inadvertently leaks the

information to Headquarters, and then the game starts all over again."

Her forefinger began to tap impatiently on the table.

"I am aware of all this, gentlemen, and now I'm asking you bluntly: Is

there an Omega Company currently operating in the Legion?"

Confronted by the direct question, the other officers had little choice

but to respond, and respond truthfully. Honesty was a primary requirement

within the Legion (it didn't matter much what you told outsiders, but you

weren't supposed to lie to your own), and while field officers were masters of

half-truths and omissions, this particular approach left little maneuvering

room . . . which was why the colonel used it.

"Ummm . . ." Major Humpty farbled, searching for words to sugarcoat the

confession. "There is a company that seems to be drawing more than its share

of . . . Legionnaires who are having difficulty adjusting to life within-"

"Losers and problem cases," the colonel cut in. "Let's call a spade a

spade, Major. Where is it?"

"Haskin's Planet, sir."

"Haskin's Planet?" The Battleax scowled. "I don't believe I'm familiar

with that one."

"It's name after the biologist who explored the swamp there prior to

settlement," Captain Joshua supplied helpfully.

"Oh yes. The contract with the swamp miners. So that's the current

dumping ground, eh?"

Humpty nodded curtly, relieved that the senior officer seemed to be

taking the news so calmly.

"The CO . . . the commanding officer there has been consistently . . .

lax in screening his transfers . . ."

"And in everything else, as I recall," the colonel added grimly. "Lax .

. . I like that. There may be a future for you in media relations, Major.

Please continue."

"Actually the situation may correct itself without Headquarters

intervening," the captain said, hoping to evade the stigma of having betrayed

their fellow officers to Headquarters. "Scuttlebutt has it that the CO's tour

is over soon, and no one expects him to reenlist. A new CO will probably put a

stop to things out of self-preservation."

"Maybe . . . maybe not."

"If you're worried about reallocating the . . . problem cases," the

major put in hastily, "I'm sure normal attrition will-"

"I was thinking about our problem of sentencing Lieutenant Scaramouche,"

the colonel interrupted dryly. "If you'll recall, that is the subject of our

discussion."

"Yes . . . of course." Humpty was relieved but surprised at the apparent

change in subject.

"What I was about to say," Battleax continued, "was that in light of

this new information, I think Major Humpty's earlier suggestion has a certain

degree of merit to it. "

It took the other officers a moment to follow her train of thought. When

they did, they were understandably taken aback.

"What? You mean transfer him to the Omegas?" Captain Joshua said.

"Why not? As I just pointed out, Omega Companies are a fact of life in

the Legion. While Headquarters generally disbands them as being too easy a

solution for our problems, at times they have their purposes . . . and it

seems to me this is one of those times."

She leaned forward, her eyes bright.

"Think about it, gentlemen. An unpleasant, no-win assignment may be just

what's needed to convince our young lieutenant to resign. If not, he's

conveniently out of the way and in no position to cause us further

embarrassment. The beauty of it is that no one, including his father and the

lieutenant himself, can accuse us of not giving him a chance at redemption. "

"But the only officer's post available there is-or will be-the CO slot,"

the major protested, "and that position calls for at least a captain. That's

what I was saying when-"

"So promote him."

"Promote him?" the captain said, painfully aware they were talking about

a rank equal to his own. "We're going to reward him for fouling up? That

doesn't seem right."

"Captain, would you consider it a reward to be placed in command of an

Omega Company . . . even if there was a promotion attached?"

Joshua made no effort to hide his grimace.

"I see your point," he conceded, "but will the lieutenant realize he's

being punished? I mean, he's new to the Legion. He may not even know what an

Omega Company is."

"If not, he'll learn," the colonel said grimly. "Well, gentlemen? Are we

in agreement?"

With this decision, made out of desperation, a new chapter was begun in

the Space Legion's already spotty history. Without knowing it, the court

officers had just provided a head, not to mention a soul and spirit, to the

group that was to become known as the Omega Mob, or, as the media liked to

call them, Phule's Company.

CHAPTER ONE

Journal File #004*

Some have commented that the executive mind tends to expand work to

fill, or overfill, available time. While I will not attempt to comment on the

overall accuracy of this statement, it was certainly the case during our

preparations prior to departure for my employer's new assignment.

For my employer, this meant countless shopping expeditions, both in

person and by computer. As you will note in these chronicles, unlike many of

his financial level, he was never reluctant to part with his money. In fact,

when confronted by a choice of two items, he seemed to invariably solve the

dilemma by simply purchasing both-a habit I found less than endearing as I was

the one required to store and track these acquisitions.

Of course, his pursuit of equipment and wardrobe meant that other

important chores tended to be neglected . . . such as conducting research on

the situation which we had been thrust into. As is so often the case, I felt

compelled to step into this void rather than allow my employer to begin this

new endeavor without proper preparation.

*Throughout this journal, there will be file gaps where I have deleted or

withheld files which are either pointlessly caught up in the petty details of

the time or contain evidence which might be utilized in court should certain

activities of this period ever come to public attention.

The Port-A-Brain computer system was designed to be the ultimate in

pocket computers. Its main strength was that it enabled the user to tap into

nearly any data base or library in the settled worlds, or place an order with

most businesses above a one-store retail level, or communicate directly with

or leave messages for anyone or any business which utilized any form of

computerized telecommunications, all without so much as plugging into a wall

outlet or tapping into a phone line. What's more, the unit, complete with

folding screen, was no larger than a paperback book. In short, it was a

triumph of high-tech microcircuitry . . . but there was a small problem. Each

unit cost as much as a small corporation, placing it well out of the financial

reach of the individual and all but the most extravagant conglomerate

executive officers; and even those who could afford one usually contented

themselves to use the cheaper modes of data access, particularly since their

job positions were lofty enough to allow them to delegate such menial tasks as

research and communications to lower echelon staffers. As such, there were

fewer than a dozen Port-A-Brain units in actual use in the entire galaxy.

Willard Phule had two: One for himself and one for his butler. He reasoned the

expense was worth avoiding the inconvenience of waiting in line for a pay

terminal.

Camped in one of the spaceport's numerous snack bars, he had been

putting his personal unit to good use for the last several hours, tirelessly

tapping in message after message in his clawlike two-fingered style. Finally

he signed off with a flourish and replaced the computer in his pocket.

"Well, that's all I can think of for now, Beek," he declared, stretching

mightily. "The rest can hold until we've had a chance to look over our new

home."

"Nice of you to curb your enthusiasm, sir," the butler said dryly. "It

may enable us to be on time for our transport."

"Don't worry about it." Phule started to finish his cardboard cup of

coffee, then set it aside with a grimace when he realized any trace of heat in

the liquid had long since fled. Some things remained untouched by

technological advances. "It's not like we're taking a commercial flight. This

ship has been hired specifically to transport us to Haskin's Planet. I doubt

it'll leave without us if we're a few minutes late."

"I wish I shared your confidence, sir. More likely the pilot will cancel

the flight completely and make do with half payment for a no-show."

Phule cocked his head quizzically at his companion.

"You're certainly a Gloomy Gus today, Beeker. In fact, you've been more

than a bit dour ever since the court-martial. Anything in particular bothering

you?"

The butler shrugged. "Let's just say I don't have the greatest faith in

the generosity of the Legion, sir."

"For example?"

"Well, for one thing, there's this chartered flight. Considering the

tight-fisted nature of the Legion, I find it a bit out of character for them

to allow the added expense of a private ship rather than using normal

commercial transport."

"That's easy." Phule laughed. "The commercial lines only fly to Haskin's

Planet once every three months."

"Exactly." Beeker nodded grimly. "Has it occurred to you that this new

assignment is more than a bit away from the mainstream of activity?"

"Beeker, are you trying to say you suspect that my promotion and

subsequent assignment are something less than a reward?"

There was an edge on his employer's voice that made the butler hesitate

before answering. While normally pleasant enough to deal with, Phule also had

a temper that ran to icy exactness rather than blind rage, and Beeker had no

wish to become the focus of it. Still, there had always been an unspoken

agreement of total honesty between them, so he summoned his courage and

plunged onward.

"Let's just say I find the timing of both to be . . . questionable,

considering the fact that you were being court-martialed at the time. If

nothing else, their insistence that you change your Legion name would seem to

indicate there's more to the matter than meets the eye."

"I'm afraid I'll have to disagree," Phule said coldly, then flashed one

of his sudden grins. "I don't think there's any question at all. The whole

thing stinks on ice. Whatever I'm headed into, it's a cinch I'm not supposed

to enjoy it."

Beeker experienced a quick wave of relief.

"Forgive me, sir. I should have realized you couldn't be totally unaware

of the situation. It's just that you seem abnormally cheerful for someone who

knows he's being, as they say, set up."

"Why shouldn't I be?" Phule shrugged. "Think about it, Beek. Whatever's

waiting for us on Haskin's has got to be better than rotting in a stockade for

a couple years. Besides, I've always wanted to command a company. That's why I

went for officer status in the first place."

"I'm not sure it's safe to assume this assignment is preferable to a

stockade," the butler cautioned carefully.

"Oh?" The reply was accompanied by a raised eyebrow. "Is there something

in the company's personnel records I won't like?"

"I am virtually certain of it, sir." Beeker smiled tightly. "I've taken

the liberty of loading them into your personal computer files so you can

review them without having to deal with hard copy. I know you've never

mastered traveling light."

He gave a slight jerk of his head toward the porters standing by their

luggage.

"Whoops! That's right. We've got a flight to catch."

Phule surged to his feet and gestured to the waiting baggage handlers.

"Follow me, men. Time and spaceflights wait for no one. C'mon, Beeker.

Let's roll."

"Captain Jester?"

It took Phule a moment to recognize his new name and rank.

"That's right," he acknowledged hastily. "Are we about ready to depart?"

"Yes, sir. As soon as you . . . What's that!?"

The pilot had spotted the caravan of porters wheeling three cart-loads

of baggage with them.

"Hmm? Oh, that's just my personal luggage. If you'll show them where to

stow it, they'll take care of the loading."

"Hey, wait a second! All weight for a flight has to be cleared in

advance. You can't just waltz up here at the last minute with a load like that

and expect me to let you on board with it!"

Inwardly Phule sighed. He had been afraid something like this would

happen. Though under contract to the Legion, on board ship the pilot had

ultimate authority. Like mangy minor bureaucrats, this gave him an exaggerated

opinion of his power. Fortunately Phule had been raised on bureaucratic

infighting.

"Look . . . Captain, is it? Yes. If you'll check your manifest, you'll

notice that the cargo that's been loaded so far is lighter than the weight you

were contracted to transport-substantially lighter. My baggage is the balance

of that weight. While it's more than is normally allotted to military

personnel, I've paid for the extra poundage out of my own pocket, and am

therefore understandably reluctant to leave it behind."

The pilot had indeed noticed that the loaded cargo was light, but had

figured it for an oversight, mentally licking his lips over the extra profit

from saved fuel. Now he saw that extra profit slipping away.

"Wellll . . . if you're sure all that stuff is still within the paid-for

poundage. Just don't expect me to load it for you."

"Certainly not," Phule soothed. "Now if you'll direct the porters,

they'll take care of everything."

Beeker hefted the two suitcases that contained their necessities for the

trip and started up the gangplank.

"I'll go ahead and start unpacking, sir," he called back over his

shoulder.

"Now, who's that!?" the pilot snarled.

"That's Beeker. He's my butler and traveling companion."

"You mean he's coming with us? No way! The Legion hired me to transport

one-count it, one-person and you're it!"

"Not surprising, as Mr. Beeker is not enlisted in the Legion. He's

attached to me personally. "

"Fine. That means he's not going."

Phule studied his fingernails.

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Phule'sCompanybyRobertAsprinCopyright1990INTRODUCTIONIthasbeensaidthateverygreatmandeservesabiographer.Ihavethereforetakenituponmyselftokeepaprivaterecordofmyemployer'sactivitiesduringhiscareerintheSpaceLegion.Iftherearethosewhowould,perhaps,contesthisqualificationsasagreatman,Iwouldanswerthatheisth...

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Robert Asprin - Phule 1 - Phule's Company

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